Give Me Strength
by LittleLongHairedOutlaw
Summary: It is Mrs Hudson who marshals Mycroft into order.


**A/N: A further entry in the series which began with _It was Greg_ and led onto _Not with Haste_ and _Blood, Skin and Gratitude_. This thing is getting out of hand.**

* * *

Martha knows what's happened as soon as she's opened the door. Or at least, she surmises. She's greeted by the sight of Mycroft Holmes, pale and haggard and looking on the verge of tears. It's more than enough to tell her that something's happened to Sherlock - he wouldn't look so worried if it were John. He opens his mouth to speak, but she shushes him and ushers him inside.

"You'll have tea first before you say anything." She leaves no room for question and he nods meekly, following her to the kitchen.

He hesitates in the doorway while she bustles with the kettle, until she shoots him a glance and he moves inside. Martha sighs and drops a tea bag into each of two mugs, hands shaking as she adds the water and stirs them. Sherlock. Of course it's Sherlock. He's always been such a reckless boy, bless him, and now look what's happened. She takes a breath to steady herself before turning back around to face Mycroft. He needs her to hold herself together now. The man's already shaken enough by whatever's happened out there.

"Thank you." His voice is quiet as she sets down the tea and biscuits in front of him before taking the chair opposite. She takes a sip of her own tea before nodding at him to speak. He twists his lips and looks away, focussing on a point over her shoulder. "Mrs Hudson," he stops, and swallows, and she waits patiently for him. God knows a body shouldn't have to rush when delivering bad news. "I'm afraid that Sher-my brother has been shot." The words come out carefully, evenly spaced in an attempt to maintain some control. He sips at his tea, and continues. "It was a chest shot. His condition is very serious." His voice cracks and he takes several deep breaths.

Martha nods. She's expected no less, and the only light is the fact that if his condition is serious then at least he's not dead. "And John? How is he?"

"He's all right. He was at the surgery when it happened." It's then, under her hard stare, that Mycroft realises what she actually means. "He's with my brother. There is no point in trying to persuade him to leave and get some rest. He'll stay there until . . . until we know."

There's no need to press for more details, not when it's obviously so difficult for him to talk about. Her heart twists at the realisation that it must be very serious indeed if Mycroft is at a loss for words and clearly in shock over the situation. He hardly even picks at the biscuits, milk chocolate digestives, his favourite. When he finishes his tea, she makes more and he doesn't protest, lost in his own thoughts.

There is a part of Martha which wants to run to the hospital and be there just in case, which wants to keep an eye on John because there is no way that he will take care of himself properly now, and wants to protect Sherlock come what may. But there is nothing that she can do, and nothing that she can protect him from. All that she can do is stay with them and offer what support that she can, be there in case John wants to talk.

It's more within her power to take care of Mycroft now, and he'll object to anything that she tries to do, though he's taking the tea and quiet remarkably well. She suspects that that's because he's smoked enough cigarettes to topple an elephant. The smell of it lingers around him in the kitchen. Well, whatever helps, she supposes.

"Have you told your parents yet?" she asks eventually. Only that morning she received a lovely e-mail from Mrs Holmes telling her about the wonderful time that she and Mister Holmes are having in Milan. If they only knew what would happen to their son a few hours later, that e-mail would have read very different, if it had been written at all.

Mycroft shakes his head, hands wrapped around his tea mug. "Not yet. I want to be able to tell them more accurately how he'll be before I do."

It's a fob excuse. She can tell. He's terrified of what their mother will say and that's the real reason, though he won't admit as much. Those Holmes boys can be so ridiculous sometimes.

"Mycroft." Her voice is firm, and he looks at her, surprised at her using his given name. "I am going to get ready to go to the hospital and see about your brother and his fiancé. You, meanwhile, are going to go outside and ring your mother and tell her that her boy has been shot and is in a serious enough condition that he could very well die." His eyes widen, and he looks about to protest, but she continues nonetheless. "No, you are going to do this. And you will send a plane to Milan to collect your parents because they need to be by Sherlock's side now. And when you have those calls arranged, you are going to bring me to the hospital. Understand?"

He nods, looking a little relieved, as if he is grateful for her giving him directions on what to do. "Yes, Mrs Hudson."

She smiles in spite of herself, in spite of Sherlock lying in hospital and the worry which feels like a knot in her chest. "Good. Now, finish your tea, dear. It'll give you strength."


End file.
